Collapses: The Venice Biennale and the End of History | Art Practical

Collapses: The Biennale and the End of History

The 2019 Venice Biennale feels like the end of everything: the end of art , the end of vacations, the end of the beach and the of pleasure. With bad about the worsening every day, the nationalistic turn of governments from the U.S. to Britain to to and , it’s unclear whether the that produces -scale cultural events like the Biennale can hold much longer, or whether the economic or ecological structures of global can continue to it. The liberal democratic order of free and free is undermined around the globe by violent and economic protectionism. The Biennale exhibition, May Live in Interesting Times, offers little but a hollow scream in opposition. The whole thing feels a bit like buyer’s remorse, a magnum opus from a lapsed believer in Fukuyama’s promise that we’d reached the End of History.1

Arthur Jafa

Joint Italy- vessel with helicopter, Piraeus Port, , August 2019. Photo: Anuradha Vikram

Both the main and the various national pavilions feature more women and of color this year than any previous. is manifest with respect to types of , interests, , biographies, and ages of the artists on . Ralph Rugoff states that “[the artists’] work grows out of a practice of entertaining multiple perspectives: of holding in seemingly contradictory notions, and juggling diverse ways of making sense of the world.”2 Diversity and multiplicity appear to be set up as counternarratives to universalism, the ideology that has historically governed the international contemporary art discourse. But is this in the case? Fukuyama says, “The spectacular abundance of advanced liberal economies and the infinitely diverse consumer made possible by them seem to both foster and preserve liberalism in the political sphere.” If, as Fukuyama suggests, there are  “fundamental ‘contradictions’ of that cannot be resolved in the context of liberalism, that would be resolvable by an alternative political-economic structure,”3 diversity is not one of those contradictions. , pluralism reinforces the “common ideological of mankind,”4 while fascism’s resurgence around the globe and the embrace of nationalist are more of a contradiction in light of the realities of international markets. This is the turn of events that market utopians like Fukuyama failed to anticipate.

Rugoff never comes off as a utopian, given his pervasive air of weary detachment. Rather, the exhibition transmits how it feels to the ascent of Donald Trump and the unfolding catastrophe of from the “all-knowing,” cool remove of the contemporary art insider—omniscient, yet impotent, and unable to divest from habits. Condo, Yuan and Peng Yu, Christian Marclay, and channel an bordering on panic. , , , commerce, monuments, the body, —all once fixed as concepts in the Western imagination, with clearly associated values, are invoked by artists such as Yin Xiuzhen, Eisenman, Slavs and Tatars, and Martine Gutierrez as hazardous, unstable, and volatile. Nowhere is this instability more evident than in the work of Mari Katayama, a whose self-portraiture tableaus tease the boundary between agency and objectification. These artists, more than the comparably straightforward advanced by artists like Zanele Muholi, Njideka Akunyili Crosby, or Gauri , capture the zeitgeist of not just the show but the present . Our historical is monumentally catastrophic, and the usual response to extremism doesn’t seem to be working. Instead, the images range from abject to absurd.

astronaut

Indios antropófagos: A Butterfly Garden in the (Urban) Jungle. Pavilion, Venice Biennale 2019. Photo: Anuradha Vikram

Especially relevant are the artists who toy with the fetishization of Indigenous bodies and cultures for Western consumption. Within the main exhibition curated by Rugoff, Gutierrez situates her U.S.-born Latinx, trans body within a of photographic , Body in Thrall, that challenge touristic notions of indigeneity, cultural authenticity, and romanticized around non-white . She occupies diverse personas, from a noir femme fatale to the terrifying Aztec deity Tlazolteotl, “Eater of Filth,” always negotiating the high fashion aesthetics of desire with a subversive decolonial aggression. Similar themes and tactics appear in Indios antropófagos in the Peruvian Pavilion, curated by , in which historical artifacts from the Spanish colonial era and large mosaic tile works by Christian Bendayán depicting frolicking Indigenous youth come together in a scathing critique of cultural tourism. In the French Pavilion, curated by Martha Kirszenbaum, artist Laure Prouvost references the oceans and the life projected to die out by 2048, only 29 years into the future, with a number of glass animals seemingly cast into the floor, strewn across a of refuse and discarded technologies.

Back in the real world, there’s no way to excise or sequester the beautiful parts into a future that can outlast the very real catastrophes happening now. The overwhelmingly urgent need for a complete lifestyle change played in my over the week following my visit to the Biennale, as I recuperated from a difficult personal and professional year on a seven-day Greek cruise with my young children, partner, and . Looking over the waters where thousands of migrants have drowned, from the top deck of a massive, yet outdated, vessel, I considered how the looming climate crisis creates a condition of simultaneous enjoyment of the modern world that is all around , and a mourning for its obvious and inevitable loss. Is this the end of curating? The traditional role of the curator as guardian of the world’s collected treasures seems as irrelevant as the contemporary job of mounting resource-heavy exhibitions for an international crowd of jet-setters. Conceptualism has begun to rot from the head, as when Rugoff controversially chose to include Christoph Büchel’s of a salvaged boat that, in 2015, sank in the Mediterranean with more than 800 people aboard. I reflected on this watery tomb, recommissioned as a tourist attraction, while looking out across Piraeus port. In the distance, a military troop (jointly operated by Italy and the European Union) performed exercises atop a warship in a city where anti-immigrant attacks are on the rise. In the seventeenth century, the Venetians gained and lost control of in a rivalry with the Ottomans. Today, it seems the EU’s primary objective in the Mediterranean is to sever thousands of years of interconnection between these three regions. Two years ago, the regenerative promise of art as a universal cultural good was undermined when documenta 14 recreated the dynamics of German austerity policies in Athens, Greece afresh. Debts went unpaid, workers uncompensated, all in the name of “fiscal responsibility” that nearly shuttered the sixty-year- event for good. What better outcome ought we to expect this year from an art event born out of universal nationalism?

Christine Wertheim

Halil Altindere, , 2016. May You Live in Interesting Times, Venice Biennale 2019. Photo: Anuradha Vikram

An explicitly utopian impulse is fugitive in May You Live in Interesting Times, but it manifests in the intersection of art, , and . Margaret and Christine Wertheim’s Crochet Coral Reef raises awareness about preservation of the oceans through a crowdsourcing practice that combines mathematical with environmentalism and craft. Tavares Strachan’s meditation on African American astronaut Robert Henry Lawrence, Jr., locates metaphysical discourse about the afterlife within a scientific conversation about —where elsewhere Halil Altindere complicates this view with the tale of Syrian Muhammed Ahmed Faris and his persecution by the state. bathes us in cleansing white light and describes a massive, thunderous universe of that takes breathtaking shape before our eyes. Hito Steyerl’s This is the Future is a post- pastorale in which vision is to the Venetian landscape to depict a state of perpetual, dreamlike futurity in which the present persistently refuses to resolve into view. The protagonist of Steyerl’s installation seeks out a garden that she had previously hidden in the future in order to protect it from the ravages of the present.

The song of the Lithuanian Pavilion Sun & Sea (Marina) still rings in my ears:

“When my body dies, I will remain,
In an empty planet without , animals and corals.
Yet with the press of a single button,
I will  this world again”

The finale of Sun & Sea (Marina) details the of facsimiles of species in widespread collapse, taking comfort in their simulated resurrection as one would in the cold rays of a sun.

Greek Islands

Sun & Sea (Marina), Lithuanian Pavilion, Venice Biennale 2019. Photo: Anuradha Vikram

The gentle tenor of the apocalyptic visions in Sun & Sea (Marina) perfectly encapsulates the feeling of living at the outside edge of the story of the human species on planet , with the that history as we know it may well be about to end because our species is one of millions undergoing collapse. The emptiness of our endeavors is invoked by Shilpa Gupta, whose wildly swinging gate hammers an effigy of national borders into a gallery wall. Otobong Nkanga’s in acrylic on crayon reference the mechanical, industrialized nature of exploitation in the 21st century. Unlike the , whose is organized around abundance, we humans have engineered systems to maximize our suffering. If humankind can truly lay claim to a common ideological heritage, as Fukuyama once argued, we have only ourselves to blame for our impending end.



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